


Minor Considerations

by mylordshesacactus



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Background Period-Typical Homophobia, Ballet, Ballet McGonagall Saves Everyone's Ass, F/F, Failed A 'Hide Hickey' Check, Meg You Useless Lesbian, disclaimer I know literally nothing about ballet i Tried, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8272600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylordshesacactus/pseuds/mylordshesacactus
Summary: They hadn't considered the bruises.Or: That Feeling When You Remember The Incredibly Obvious Line Of Hickeys Down Your Girlfriend's Neck Right When You're Both In The Middle Of Undressing In A Communal Changing Room.





	

  
They hadn’t considered the bruises. 

If truth be told, Meg had to acknowledge, they hadn’t considered much of anything. The risks, the potential consequences, they’d been _aware_ of them, certainly, but...they hadn’t seemed to matter in the moment, next to their happiness, next to their lightheaded _need_. Christine’s warmth, the shifting of her skin under Meg’s palms, her soft gasps, the elegant fingers carding through blonde hair, pulling her closer, a silent plea and a demand…

Nothing had mattered except answering that demand with several of her own. Certainly not the thought of the marks, invisible in the dark, that they would be leaving behind.

The joys of a communal changing room brought reality crashing down far more quickly than Meg had been prepared for. There was no awkwardness, not in a ballet dormitory, not at this level; unfortunately, there was also nothing the others hadn’t seen.

“Oh, Meg, you poor thing,” one of the girls commented, gesturing to a dark bruise on the inside of her thigh that she tried desperately not to flush at the memory of. “What did you knock yourself against to get _that?_ ”

Another, this one considerably gigglier, grabbed her wrist and turned it over, exposing another mark. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a grin. “I think she’s just been having a lot of fun!”

Predictably, that set the others off in an explosion of tittering and jokes, which calmed only with the crisp rap of a cane against the back of a chair.

Oh, it was a very good thing Meg was so naturally pale. None of the girls seemed particularly contrite that they might have potentially exposed her in front of _Madame Giry_ , but if her mother took any notice of the insinuation she didn’t show it.

“Perhaps,” she said drily, “if Meg would hold proper form, she would not be black and blue the next day. _Something you might do well to remember,_ mademoiselle, if your performance in rehearsal yesterday was anything to judge by…”

Meg tried not to make her sigh of relief too obvious.

One learned efficiency as a ballerina. She finished changing by rote, and was tying up her hair when her blood suddenly ran cold.

Trying for casual and almost certainly failing, she glanced down the line to Christine, who was for once entirely present in the moment. She was also very noticeably half-changed and still wearing her hair loose, fiddling with her thick curls—almost absently pulling them close around her neck.

Conveniently hiding the trail of the hard line of kisses Meg had left prominently along her throat.

 _Oh,_ she thought, heart pounding as she desperately tried to think of some way out of this. _Oh, Christine, I’m so sorry—_

Any other time it would almost be funny, the way the entire room winced in unison at the bang of their mistress’ stick against the floor; this morning Meg cringed worse than any of them.

None of them were really afraid of being struck. Her mother was strict, demanding, impatient, very nearly impossible to satisfy; but fair and never cruel, and everyone in the ballet had learned that by now. She really never hit dancers—not hard, anyway. She made noise, made corrections, startled you out of poor posture, but she wasn’t the kind of dance mistress who enjoyed hurting her charges.

But she didn’t tolerate laziness, either, and Meg was much more concerned about Christine being _humiliated_ than hurt.

_“Miss Daa_ _é.”_

Christine’s shoulders hunched guiltily. “I’m sorry, Madame—”

Meg couldn’t see her mother’s face, but she could almost feel her rolling her eyes in exasperation.

“What you are is _asleep_ , girl,” she snapped. The others, sitting as still as possible as they always did when one of their number was reprimanded—look too smug, relax too fully, and without fail you found yourself the next target—still managed to exchange amused looks. Christine tried to apologize again and was cut off by a cross wave of the hand. “Go. There is a package under my name at the post office; if a walk in the cold cannot wake you up, nothing will.”

Relief was clear on Christine’s face as she stood, however much she tried to hide it. “Yes, Madame Giry.”

“Out,” she griped. As Christine hurried to leave—and hopefully put a scarf on—she added, “I expect you in practice with the others the moment you return! If I suspect you’ve been dawdling…”

“Yes, Madame!” Christine called hastily as she tried to edge out the door.

Meg half-stood. “I’ll go with—”

 _“The others,”_ her mother interrupted with an unimpressed look, “To stretch and warm up, Meg Giry, _your_ tongue needs no more awakening, thank you.” There was a pause. “Well? Am I training dancers or headless chickens?” The stick rapped against the floor. “As you’re all so still I assume you have nothing to be doing with your time?”

The changing room dissolved back into organized chaos, minus one Christine Daaé, who had finally escaped.

* * *

Christine arrived at practice twenty minutes late, flushed from the cold and breathing just heavily enough to suggest she’d run at least part of the way. But she’d changed, and was remarkably put-together all things considered.

Her hair was pulled tightly out of the way, exposing her neck; if Meg looked closely enough she could find the slight variation where she would have applied makeup once she had privacy in the changing room, but if she hadn’t known exactly what to look for…

Mme. Giry took less notice than her daughter; a raised eyebrow and meaningful glance at the clock as Christine tried to slip into her place as unobtrusively as possible were the only acknowledgement she received.

 _“Timing,”_ the ballet mistress said pointedly, “is a skill as important as any other you might train yourselves in. Timing and focus above all, _align your foot, girl—_ better. Again.”

As she moved away, Meg risked leaning back to whisper, “Are you all right?”

Christine’s voice was reassuringly warm, none of the faint edge it took on when she was upset or frightened. “I’m fine, Meg.”

They paused to very carefully not speak to each other as Meg’s mother passed them. Christine’s left leg was adjusted with a light tap; Meg was examined closely for a moment before being passed on without correction.

For some time they both managed to focus; ballet was not a discipline conducive to letting one’s mind wander. But for once Meg’s heart wasn’t in it. Perhaps she was just tired, she _really_ hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before.

She gave a quiet sigh at the memory. Even despite how close they’d come to discovery…

Christine’s voice, barely audible, was back at her ear.

“We’ll be more careful,” she promised. Then, tender, with a smile she could almost hear: “I don’t regret it, Meg.”

Despite herself, Meg smiled. She couldn’t help but look over her shoulder. Christine was beautiful. She always had been, she was the kind of person who could take your breath away if they showed up dressed in rags and dripping slush at your door; but when she was _happy,_ she was radiant.

Meg turned forward again, drifting away in memories of Christine’s shining eyes, still smiling softly to herself.

Her mother’s cane struck a centimeter away from Meg’s fingertips with an earth-splitting _crack,_ and she shrieked and jumped halfway out of her skin before hastily stepping back into time with the others.

* * *

Meg stretched until her back cracked, and leaned against the wall to massage her feet.

“Ow,” she muttered. No sympathy from the others, of course; _everyone’s_ feet hurt. They were all spent and aching, and more than anything Meg wanted a hot bath. A bath without ice chunks floating in it would do, though, which was good, because that was about the best she was likely to get.

A gentle laugh and warm hands drew her attention away from her weary feet, as Christine put one arm around her waist and worked the fingers of the other in comforting circles against Meg’s ankle.

“Does that help?”

Meg grinned widely, leaning into the taller girl and letting her work some of the tenderness out. “Mmm. Yes.” She drew back just enough to look Christine in the eyes, and found them sparkling.

She could kiss her, if only they weren’t in public…

“Come for a walk with me,” Christine whispered. Meg bit her lip to keep from blushing too hard, but before an uncharacteristically giggly Christine could tug her away, her mother’s voice interrupted them.

“Meg.” There was a sharp undercurrent, like the crack of a whip, and Meg whirled around in surprise. She hadn’t thought she’d done anything to earn real anger; everyone got distracted in practice sometimes, it was just a fact of life...but her mother’s expression brooked no argument. “Come with me.”

Mystified, Meg followed, closing the door behind her. “What…”

With a short, violent sigh of irritation her mother grabbed her by the wrist and led her down the corridor without a word. She didn’t even pause when Meg, taken aback at the iron grip, failed to fall into step fast enough and stumbled. Her mother didn’t so much as acknowledge her repeated questions about what was going on until she’d pulled her into her dressing room, lit a lamp, and locked the door.

“You,” she said as she turned around, _“idiot girl.”_

Meg flinched back, hurt and bewildered. “Maman—?”

“What could you have been thinking?” her mother hissed. “You have _never_ been so reckless and you certainly haven’t learned it from her. This kind of carelessness will make you a pariah and her along with you! Do you ever _think?”_

Meg felt like she’d been doused in ice water after all.

“I,” she stammered. “I...don’t know what you mean.”

She hadn’t thought anyone had figured it out, she thought her mother hadn’t realized—she _didn’t_ know, she couldn’t know, and God only knew what would happen if anyone else—but without any evidence Meg had only to keep denying it, refuse to confirm what could only be a suspicion…

Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose.

“You _must_ be more careful,” she said. “I cannot protect you from your own thoughtlessness, Meg!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Meg whispered mechanically.

There was a long pause. Finally, her mother gave a long sigh. This time there was no anger in it; that had burned off quickly, and when she looked up the sheer worry in her eyes was like a physical blow.

After a moment, she reached out and brushed Meg’s hair back. Gently, like she had when Meg was a small child. She seemed about to say something more, then shook her head slightly in favor of placing a hand on Meg’s cheek.

Meg swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, only now aware of the fact that her own hands were trembling, shaking so badly it had to be noticeable.

“Thank you,” she managed. Her mother gave another worried sigh and kissed Meg’s temple.

“I love you very much, my dear.”

Meg nodded blindly before throwing her arms around her mother’s neck, clinging to her as best she could with nerveless fingers.


End file.
